


Achilles Last Stand

by TheHonorableJudgeNovak



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Supernatural
Genre: Credence Barebone Deserves Better, Credence Barebone Needs a Hug, Dean - Freeform, Gen, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Protective Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-03-29 08:29:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13923282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHonorableJudgeNovak/pseuds/TheHonorableJudgeNovak
Summary: There is something strange in New York City: explosions, deaths, et cetera. Dean is restless enough to investigate it, unaware how deeply he'd be thrust into the world of witches and wizards and how he'd meet a certain young man in need of a friend. Then Sam and Jack have to rescue him, because of course Dean runs into trouble. Crossover!





	1. Something Rotten in the State of New York

**Author's Note:**

> In the Supernatural timeline, this takes place around S13e4-5. Since the second Fantastic Beasts movie has been released, this is no longer canon-compliant. I hope you all enjoy! (Warnings that also happen to be spoilers for this fic are present at the end. It's nothing squicky, but I thought I'd be cautious).

"Here's a job that will take your mind off things," Sam said, surreptitiously pushing his laptop into Dean's field of vision. He was having his mid-afternoon beer in the solitude of the kitchen, only to have Sam interrupt him with another one of his jobs to 'distract' him.

 

"Maybe I don't want my mind taken off things," Dean groused as he leaned forward to retrieve the beer that was now on the other side of the intruding laptop. Frankly, his mind was supposed to be focused on the matter at hand: what to do with Lucifer's kid, how to save Mom, and when he could go to the grocery for whiskey, because 12 oz beer was no longer doing it for him.

 

Sam heaved a long-suffering sigh and let Dean have a sip of his beer. "Okay, but this is interesting. Three buildings in a 50-mile radius have been destroyed. Inexplicably. Some people say they're gas explosions, the internet thinks it's terrorist activity or government experimentation. Every article on the explosions is confused and scattered. It- it's bizarre!"

 

Dean took a swig of his beer, peered at the website touting mysterious explosions, and then slapped the laptop shut. "Property damage ain't our thing."

 

"Except it is," Sam huffed as he opened the laptop again and logged in, "when two people have died. In that first explosion. And in the next explosion, three _more_ people died."

 

Dean shrugged. "As far as exploding buildings go, casualties like that sound pretty good." He downed the last of his beer. "And I don't like New York anyway. Weird stuff is always happening there."

 

"Exactly!" Sam insisted.

 

"NYC doesn't have its own hunters? They don't need us mucking around. You're not fond of mucking it in the city either, why're you so eager to go?"

 

Sam drew back and tried to look innocent. It was fooling no one. "Oh no, I wouldn't be going. I gotta stay here with Jack."

 

"So you're trying to get rid of me," Dean accused him, finally understanding Sam's angle.

 

Sam muttered to himself, "maybe it's because you're not doing Jack any favors…"

 

"Screw Jack! And screw you! I don't need a job to take my mind off of the antichrist, I need to take care of the fucking antichrist!"

 

Sam rubbed his temples. "You know he can hear you. You're just being cruel now."

 

Dean couldn't care less how cruel he seemed to the kid. That inexplicably adult-looking _thing_ was not a child. At least, not a human child. Dean knew his brother was always the one with empathy toward the monsters- unless said monster was Benny, he admitted to himself without chagrin -but surely Sam was taking this too far?  _Surely_ he realized that harboring fucking Damien would bite them in the ass? Dean belatedly realized he was breathing heavily, his hackles raised like a hound of hell. 

 

Dean took a long, deep breath. Screw it. He couldn't sit around with the two men acting as if everything was hunky dory, not when Mom was gone and Cas dead. "Fine. Maybe I do need some space," he admitted without sounding like he was conceding. He swiped his jacket from the chair and strode from the room. "I'll be in the Big Apple, don't wait up for me."

 

┌( ͝° ͜ʖ͡°)=ε/̵͇̿̿/’̿’̿ ̿

 

Dean didn't have many leads.

 

Everyone he interviewed had only fuzzy memories of what happened, and they were all so damn _confident_ when they said there was nothing weird at all going on. That in itself set off red flags in his mind, because usually there were at least a few kooks who had a theory. The EMF was silent, so no ghosts. The only things that could cause destruction of this magnitude were angels and demons. But usually there were more bodies and if there were eyewitnesses (he had plenty), they usually had something to say other than, 'well I heard it was a gas explosion. Didn't see anything before or after.'

 

Okay, so Dean had no leads.

 

He couldn't even make a connection between the three buildings, just that they were all in Manhattan. The third and last explosion was at an abandoned tenement house not too far from where the World Trade Center once stood. The second place that exploded was a small shopping center with massage parlors, small department stores, and other little salons.

 

The first explosion was the building Dean saved for last. It was an abandoned building near the Manhattan bridge and had nothing interesting about it at all other than the fact that it exploded last week. After asking a few people, he was directed toward a 'Darryl' whom, people said, was going on and on about some 'crazy shit' he saw that no one else believed.

 

It was early, but he caught the young man early in the morning right across the street from the collapsed building.

 

"It don't have a long history. Pops said it was built in the 70s or so, and folks here and there was talking about converting it into some kind of housing for old people. No one lived there when it exploded. Naw, lately it's only been used for shady stuff. Like _real_ shady stuff."

 

"And I take it you weren't around when it happened?"

 

"Naw man, I _was_ here! I was picking up my lil brother from after-school stuff. Man, shit was crazy."

 

This was the first break Dean had since he started. He leaned forward and gripped his pen tighter. "Yeah? What did you see? Anything suspicious?"

 

"I think? It was real dark. Some guy in all black was loitering at the front there. I was concerned, y'know? I chatted with the Asian lady at the corner store while I was paying for some snacks, and she say she about ready to call the police. I said 'yeah, you best.' I mean, my lil bro goes to school cross the street, you don't want no creeps hanging out 'cross the street." Dean nodded in agreement, encouraging the kid to keep talking. "Yeah, and then before you know it, bam! A giant, and I mean _gigantic_ hole in the building and a giant smoky black fog _thing_ hanging round, and I swear to God it had white eyes that were looking straight at me."

 

That was the first Dean had heard about white eyes or a smoke creature. Maybe it was a demon with white eyes? Maybe it was in the middle of smoking out of its host?

 

"How big was it?"

 

"Aw man, huge! Like an elephant, I swear. But once it really got going, it was even bigger. And it was kinda oily or sandy looking too. Man, I never wanna see something like that ever again in my life. _Shit._ "

 

This was the most helpful person all day, and Dean had to wonder why this person seemed to be the only one to remember any details about the explosion. "Did anyone else see it? And remember it the way you do?"

 

The young man pouted. "I ran inside after it saw me. I hid away in the bathroom for a while until after extended day ended and my lil brother was waiting for me. Felt so bad, man. And then when I talked to some people afterward, shit. They don't remember nothing. The Chinese lady who own that store on the corner? She say it look just like a gas explosion and don't even remember chatting with me about the creep 'cross the street. Now, tell me that's not weird." 

 

So some kind of creature with memory-wiping capabilities. Again, it seemed demon or angel, still more like demon because of the black smoke. Though, Dean supposed, it could also mean a witch. And a witch could hypothetically blow up a large building with a giant black cloud.

 

"You know, they say it was a gas explosion. My buddies think it's a terrorist attack. But that ain't no terrorist. That was some crazy supernatural shit. I hope you government types can figure it out, cause I don't feel safe on these streets anymore."

 

"Well, thanks for your time, Darryl. You've really been a great help. Don't hesitate to call if you see anything else," Dean said, shaking the kid's hand and leaving him with a business card. The young man nodded fiercely and went on his way, probably to school.

 

Notebook in hand, Dean had a lot to think about and a lot to tell Sammy. He pulled out his cell phone and tucked the little book in the pocket where he usually kept his phone. As he started scrolling through his contacts for Sam, he suddenly noticed a cloaked figure lurking in an alleyway. It took only a moment to undo the safety on his firearm as he pulled it from its holster, but that moment cost him. He pointed his gun up at a pair of green eyes, but it was too late.

 

_"Obliviate!"_

 

╰( ⁰ ਊ ⁰ )━☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ

 

Jack cautiously took a seat at the overlarge table. "Dean has been gone for a few days. He must be very angry."

 

Sam shook his head. "No, he's just on a job. It's a two-day drive at least, and he's probably on his way to solving it." That's if Dean bothered to sleep. Sam took a sip of his morning coffee and continued to take notes.

 

"Oh, is that what you've been reading about? For the mission Dean is on?" Jack asked, peering across the table at Sam's book which was laid open on an entry about witches.

 

"I've been reading up on people who are born with- with powers. Like you. How people learned to control them."

 

Jack nodded and continued looking at the book upside down as if he could read the words just fine. He furrowed his brow and hunched his shoulders as he started to comprehend what he was reading.

 

"You want me to control my powers? Or to repress them?" he challenged Sam.

 

Sam looked up at him in confusion, having no clue what set off the young man. "What do you mean?"

 

Jack rounded the table and pointed to the heading of the next page which Sam hadn't yet read.

 

_'Obscuri and Obscurials'_

 

_'Obscuri are parasitic forces that develop in children who unwittingly repress their magic or abilities, normally due to psychology, threat of persecution, or abuse.'_

 

Sam was quick to reassure the boy. "No, of course I wouldn’t want that to happen to you! I was reading the page before that, on methods to harness magic. Your powers may not be the same as magic, but they might be similar since you were born with them."

 

"Oh. Could _I_ become an Obscurial?" asked Jack curiously. He didn't seem apprehensive, but Sam was again quick to quell any fears: "I'd say that's very unlikely."

 

At that moment, Sam's phone rang. Thankfully, their conversation would be put off for another time. He was also relieved to see that it was Dean since his brother, inconsiderate as always, hadn't called since he left four days ago except to say that he'd made it to NYC.

 

_"Dude!_ " greeted Dean, far too cheerfully. Had he already solved the case?

 

It wasn't what Sam expected, but he answered back, "Dude?"

 

_"Where are you?"_ he asked.

 

"Uh…I'm at the bunker. Why?"

 

Jack was giving Sam a concerned look that felt all too familiar. It was both funny and sad to see it now.

 

_"The bunker? What're you doing there when I'm in New York City? Like, the New York. Bridges and street food and everything-"_

 

What was Dean even talking about?

 

_"-pretty cool, and I'm even thinking of seeing a Broadway show, but don't tell anyone-"_

 

"Whoa, whoa," Sam interrupted. This did not sound good. "What's the last thing you remember?"

 

_"I dunno, I guess driving here. Though now that you say it, you weren't with me for the drive. Why am I here again?"_

 

There was something terribly wrong with his brother, and he was more than a thousand miles away. He felt a chill race down his spine. Don't panic, don't panic… "Okay, uh, do you know where your motel is?"

 

_"Uh…"_ there was some scuffling sounds, and then Dean spoke, _"Yeah. According to this key card, I'm staying at an inn on Nassau Street. Why?"_

 

"Jack and I are gonna join you. Someone's knocked you out or wiped your memories."

 

_"…You're right. Shit."_

 


	2. Worlds Collide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean meets a strange young man in black, and Sam meets a strange old couple. Things are getting interesting.

_"Someone's knocked you out or wiped your memories."_

 

"…You're right." Dean put a hand on his forehead. "Shit."

 

Over the phone, they worked out the logistics of Sam and Jack coming as back-up, and right before hanging up, Dean realized that he had no idea what he had been investigating.

 

"Wait up, Sam! What kind of job was I working?"

 

There was a long silence from the other end of the phone and finally Sam said, _"Maybe you should just go back to the inn until we get there."_

 

Sam was benching him? Hell no!

 

"Hey, I need to be able to defend myself. What should I look out for, at least?" Dean asked.

 

 _"We didn't know anything other than the fact that there were three explosions. We just knew everything there was available in the news. Just…be safe, okay?"_ Sam told him, sounding incredibly worried. If he and Jack were driving instead of flying, then he was sure Sam would've had him on the phone the entire length of the drive.

 

"Don't get your panties in a twist, I'll be fine."

 

Dean reached into his blazer to put his phone back in an inner pocket when he realized that his notebook was in the wrong pocket. He pulled out the little spiral book and saw that there were only two pages with any words. The first page looked like his pre-investigation note-taking, with various locations and questions. The second page was messier, and scrawled onto it were short phrases, like 'creep in black' and 'giant smoky black fog,' 'oily,' 'Chinese lady no memory.'

 

He was close to a building that looked like it had been demolished, and according to his first page of notes, this was the street where the first explosion had occurred. Maybe the memory wipe had happened right before he called Sam. He chatted quickly with the Asian woman at the corner store who confirmed that he'd been talking to some kid named 'Darryl' who'd been dropping off his kid brother at school.

 

Dean thanked her and although he planned on going straight back to the motel, his curiosity was piqued when he noticed a figure among the debris. Beyond the police _caution!_ tape was a man dressed in all black. Dean was immediately put on alert. He walked across the street to the building, and still the man didn't notice him. He pulled his gun out and cocked it, taking a slow approach. Was this perhaps the 'creep in black'?

 

As he edged closer, he realized the person was whimpering. Dean lowered his weapon halfway, not sure if this was a diversion or a person really in need of help.

 

"Hey," he intoned gruffly.

 

The figure flinched. It was a young man with a bowed head and a threadbare blazer. The clothes looked like they might once have been quality, but looked like they'd been put through the wringer. He wore some kind of thin tie (that Sam would've known the name of) and his collar was turned up. His haircut too added to the idea slowly forming in Dean's mind: this person was from a different era.

 

"Hey!" he said again. This time, the figure stood up shakily. His hands started to move to his chest in a defensive position but were then rapidly retracted to his sides. His posture- stooped, head bowed -made him look smaller than he probably was. He looked terrified, and Dean wasn't sure how to deal with such a scared-looking possible-monster who wasn't trying to kill him.

 

"What- what's your name?" Dean asked, deciding to take a more Sam-like approach.

 

The man muttered something, but Dean didn't catch it.

 

Dean continued moving closer. "Sorry, could you say that again? I didn't hear you."

 

"Cr- Credence," he said softly. An unusual name, but not all that weird.

 

"Alright, Credence. Are you hurt anywhere?"

 

At that, the man- or boy? -took a step back and raised his eyes to make brief contact with Dean's. He quickly directed his gaze downward again and muttered, "um, no. I'm sorry, who are you? Where am I?"

 

Maybe his memory was wiped too. Maybe this kid had seen something. "My name's Dean. You're on Pike street in New York."

 

The boy's shoulders slumped even more. "Why…" he whispered, "why does everything look different?"

 

Time travel, Dean decided. He put the safety on his gun, tucked it into his belt, and extended a hand. "Here, why don't we get out of this deathtrap and find something to eat? How's that sound?"

 

The man flinched at the word 'deathtrap' but nodded slowly at the mention of food. He walked toward Dean but resolutely did not touch his hand, instead stumbling until he was standing right beside him. It was awkward trying to keep the boy in sight when he was standing just beyond Dean's peripheral vision, but he shrugged it off and walked away from the shambles.

 

"How'd you get here?" Dean asked, wondering how much of the mystery this young man could unravel.

 

"I walked," answered the younger man.

 

That startled a short laugh out of Dean, which in turn startled the young man. Dean could barely see the man tense up. "Credence, huh? You live round here? You got anyone?" Dean knew his questions sounded incredibly creepy, especially coming from some random guy. The young man didn't seem to mind.

 

Credence shook his head. "I don't know. I think… I hope my sister is still alive, but I can't find her. I used to…there used to be a church here. That's where we all lived."

 

Dean took that in. It seemed more and more that this person had been flung from his time to the modern age. Now, what that had to do with the explosions, Dean needed to figure out. They walked down the street, and although there were some shopfronts that looked like they served food, they also looked like they were the types to serve healthy cardboard pretending to be food. He ignored those and kept an eye out for a diner of some sort, somewhere that would serve bacon and eggs...

 

"Sir, may I ask…your name again? Your full name?" Credence's voice was getting stronger and more confident.

 

Dean looked at him briefly. "Dean Winchester."

 

"Mr. Winchester." Dean winced. "Why does everything look different?"

 

Well, he supposed he ought to answer the kid's question. Hopefully it wouldn't come as too much of a shock. "Tell me, what year do you think it is?"

 

Credence looked concerned. "Did you hit your head, Sir?"

 

"Humor me."

 

"It's 1926."

 

"Yeah. So tell me if you're gonna pass out, but it's actually the year 2017."

 

Credence, who had been a step behind Dean this whole time, suddenly stopped. Dean turned around, ready to give him some sort of reassurance, but the young man didn't look shocked. Instead, he looked sad.

 

"You gonna be okay?" Dean asked, backtracking the couple of steps that Credence had failed to follow.

 

"I- am I dreaming?" Credence shook his head. "So you're not a witch? I've just…I've become unstuck in time?"

 

Dean put a hand on the boy's shoulder, but instead of a flinch that he might have expected, the young man leaned into the touch. Realizing this was what the boy needed, Dean put his arm around him and squeezed.

 

"Hey, you're doing great. I know it's gotta be so confusing, to suddenly find yourself here. I mean, in this time. But we're gonna sit down and figure this out, okay?"

 

Credence looked up at him, just really _looked_. The intensity of his gaze was unsettling, but Dean would not turn away, not when it seemed like human connection was something this kid really needed. The young man finally nodded, and Dean felt the boy's shoulders lose some of their tension.

 

"Good," Dean said to himself. He gave Credence's shoulder one last squeeze and then continued his search for pancakes.

 

╰( ⁰ ਊ ⁰ )━☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ

 

Sitting on the bed in a hotel room reserved under a Mr. Robert Plant, one of Dean's old favorites, Sam was growing frustrated. They had hopped on the first plane to La Guardia Airport and then took a cab to the inn on Nassau street. "He's not answering his phone," Sam grunted as he attempted a different number. It rang too many times and then went to the voicemail of Herman Munster. "Dammit!" There were many different phones that theoretically could be answered by Dean, but doubtless most were in the glove compartment of the Impala (which is sitting on street parking and probably costing a pretty penny to stay there) and not actually on Dean's person.

 

"Okay, I've got to go look for him."

 

Jack shot up, but Sam anticipated that: "Jack, I'd really be more comfortable if you'd stay here in case Dean comes back."

 

Jack tilted his head to the side in an eerie imitation of an old friend. Once again, Sam wondered how much of Castiel the boy had taken. Did he know how similar he was?

 

"You can leave a note. How can I help you if you're out looking for Dean and I'm here?" Jack asked.

 

"You can help by researching, how's that?" Sam suggested. He pulled on a jacket and patted his pockets to make sure he had everything.

 

Jack frowned. "I read and reread that book about powers on the plane. What else have I to read?"

 

Sam wasn't sure if he wanted to let Jack have unfiltered access to the internet. However, he had no idea what was going on here and any bit would really help. He ran a hand through his shaggy hair and conceded. "Fine. You can use the laptop. Look for anything that creates explosions. Creatures, maybe. Witches. Demons, angels…" Sam was growing more disheartened as he listed the possibilities. It was an aimless research project, and if he or Dean were on the receiving end of those instructions, there would have been a good many beers ready for consumption.

 

"I won't let you down," Jack said determinedly, as if the task were not a ridiculously vague goose chase.

 

Well, far be it from Sam to discourage the kid. He nodded briskly and let the door lock behind him. Time to find his wayward brother.

 

┌( ͝° ͜ʖ͡°)=ε/̵͇̿̿/’̿’̿ ̿

 

He decided first to investigate the building on Pike Street. After all, that was the only location from which any of the big bridges was visible, and Dean was going on and on about bridges and street food. The New York bustle was noise that drew him into a meditative state, where the only thoughts circling in his head were, 'This was altogether a terrible idea. Dean has the right to be mad at me if I ever see him again.'

 

It was less than a mile to the location, and he could clearly see which building had been the victim of an explosion. There was an elementary school across the street and a few shops diagonal to it. He approached the proprietor of one of the corner shops and pulled out his fake badge.

 

"Excuse me ma'am, I have a few questions for you."

 

"Oh, you with him?" she asked brusquely.

 

"Sorry, who?"

 

"Other FBI. He here early this morning. Ask question of _errybody_ in the neighborhood," said the old lady.

 

"Yes! You saw him? Did you see if he was talking to anyone in particular?"

 

"Oh, he with Darryl for a while. Good boy. Crazy, but good boy."

 

"And where can I find Darryl?"

 

The old lady glared at him. "You be nice to Darryl! He good boy. Pick up little brother every day. Mhm. Good boy."

 

Well, then Sam only had to wait until Darryl came by to pick up his brother from school. "Will you point him out to me if I come by later, when the school lets out?" He handed her a business card just in case.

 

"Okay, but you be nice! Darryl never get in trouble, ever. Sometime he stop here to buy his snack. Polite boy."

 

Sam nodded. "Thank you. I'll be back." Hopefully this Darryl could lead toward some answers. Now all he had to do was wait. He figured he could at least investigate the building some. He looked at the building from the street corner. There was _caution!_ tape all around the front of the building and the site didn't have the pattern he'd expect from a mere explosion. There were parts broken and missing, and even the concrete in front of the building was damaged. Yet half of the building was still standing.

 

He turned back to the old lady. "Ma'am?" He caught her attention. "What was that building? Before?"

 

The lady furrowed her brows and tried to explain in her broken English: "Abandoned. Don't know what was there before. But now, very bad. Bad people. Deals. In there, behind there. Not good."

 

So there was some sketchy activity concerning the building. Sam scrutinized the structure again and was distracted by a pair of old people stepping into the ruins. They hadn't been there mere seconds ago.

 

"You know them?" he asked the shop lady.

 

"No, never see them before."

 

Sam thanked her again and surreptitiously walked back to the building, being careful to keep the figures in sight. There was an old woman and an old man, both of them wearing hats and dark coats. He sidled up to the stooped woman and cleared his throat. "Uhm, excuse me?" 

 

The old woman turned to him, curiosity in her raised eyebrows and bright eyes. She had one foot in a pile of rubble and one shoulder ducking under the police tape "Yes, young man?" She had gray hair and many wrinkles, but she seemed so young when she smiled. Sam wasn't sure if he would place her in her 70s or her 90s.

 

"Are you familiar with this building?" Sam asked, making eye contact with the old man as well.

 

The old lady sighed and took a step back so that she was no longer violating the crime scene. The man wrapped an arm around her. "Once, long ago, there used to be a church here," he said in a very proper English accent.

 

"If you could call that den a church…" the old woman growled. She spoke like an American, but some of her words had a touch of Britain in them. Either she lived there as a very young child or spent a great deal of her adult life overseas.

 

"Tina…" the man said, trying to temper her anger. He looked back at Sam with the same curiosity that had been on the woman's face.

 

These people sounded like they knew something.

 

"Well, we really must be going," the man said, starting to usher the woman, probably his wife, away.

 

Sam stepped in front of them and pulled out his FBI badge. "Actually, I'm Agent Page, and if you can spare the time to talk to me, I'd really appreciate it."

 

It seemed as if the man were about to launch into a story when Tina placed a hand on her husband's chest. She smirked at Sam and tapped the ID with the back of her other hand. "Young man, I retired from government work after sixty good years. And you're trying to pass that off as a real No-Maj badge?"

 

"It's real," he said defensively, tucking the fake badge away and wondering what she meant by 'no-madge.'

 

"Now," she said, folding her hands, "who are you really? You seem to know something." She had effectively turned the tables. Sam considered turning them back around, maybe intimidate them with 'arrest for obstructing justice.' But the old man, whose name Sam didn't know, seemed to be taking his cues from the lady, and she was not one to be pushed around.

 

Screw it.

 

"My brother's missing," Sam blurted. Immediately, their brows furrowed in concern, and Tina's fingers spasmed against the man's shirtsleeve. He continued quickly, hoping not to lose the compassion he'd seen in them, but still wary that these people could be responsible for everything that was happening. "He was here in New York investigating the explosions, and then he disappeared. I know he was here last."

 

Tina whirled on her husband with vigor that seemed strange from a woman her age and grabbed his arms. "Newt! That was that guy!"

 

The man called Newt nodded vigorously. "No doubt, no doubt." He turned to Sam with a bright grin. "I think fate has brought us together! Come, we shall continue to investigate as a team. Oh, I haven't had an adventure in a very long while."

 

With that, he grabbed Sam by the sleeve. Quite suddenly, Sam was squeezed through a very tight, very impossible tube and tumbled into a hallway in a tangle of his own limbs.

 

Immediately, he was on his feet with gun drawn. To his surprise, the man looked at the gun with chagrin and the woman was too busy scolding him to notice the lethal weapon pointed their direction.

 

"Newt, you can't just apparate a No-Maj without telling him!" Tina chastened the old man. She turned to Sam. "Excuse him, he has no idea what is and isn't appropriate sometimes."

 

"Honestly, I forgot. Haven't met a magic-naïve muggle in recent years."

 

_Magic_

 

There was no flapping of wings. They hadn't flown or teleported like angels. Sam was with witches. They certainly could have exploded those buildings and wiped Dean's memories. And now they were likely to do the same to Sam. He held his gun with more resolve.

 

"What's going on!" he demanded.

 

"Look what you've done," Tina groused at Newt. Sam had seen quarreling witches before. It had resulted in too much loss of life and a strained back.

 

"You're witches," Sam asserted, daring them to deny it..

 

Newt held his hands palms forward, the way people were supposed to when faced with a gun. "Not quite right. I'm a wizard. She's the witch."

 

Tina rolled her eyes at him. Newt slowly started to lower his hands the way one did when trying to approach a lion. "And you believe witches exist. Which means you've met one."

 

"Several," Sam growled, "and very few of them friendly."

 

"That's just bad luck, mate."


	3. Another American Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and the mysterious Credence have a chat over Greek food. It is enlightening for both of them. And then a fight breaks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, with the release of the new Fantastic Beasts/Crimes of Grindelwald teaser trailer, this is officially non-canon! It was always going to be non-canon. It was just a matter of how long. I particularly like this chapter, so I hope you all will too!

_"I- am I dreaming?" Credence shook his head. "So you're not a witch? I've just…I've become unstuck in time?"_

 

\---

 

"What do you remember?" Dean asked, pouring the small bottle of ouzo into his coffee. It wouldn't taste as good as an Irish coffee, but at least it was alcohol enough. They had walked a good distance before Dean finally settled on the Greek diner.

 

 

The boy's nose wrinkled. "Is that…alcohol?" whispered Credence furtively, looking around them. The diner was in a small alcove tucked under a Chinese sign advertising printing products, but it was popular enough to be full on a weekday morning. No one was giving them a second glance.

 

Dean gave him a look. "How old are you?"

 

"Twenty-four."

 

Dean poured half of his ouzo-coffee into Credence's empty mug. "There. Now don't say I never do anything for you."

 

"I'd never, Mr. Winchester."

 

Dean had to stop him right there. "Listen, Mr. Winchester was my father. Can't you call me Dean? You're makin' me feel old."

 

"…Dean." Credence looked visibly uncomfortable.

 

Dean sighed. "Or you can keep calling me Winchester, whatever makes you comfortable."

 

Credence let out a long, relieved breath.

 

"Okay, so tell me what you remember," Dean said again.

 

Credence shook his head and squeezed his fists as tightly as he could- which wasn't very tight since a couple of his fingers didn't seem to flex very well. "N-no. who are you, really? Why are you helping me?" The desperation in his voice was tempered only by the low volume he used, as if he were unaccustomed or afraid to raise his voice.

 

Dean was starting to grow impatient since the walk to the diner hadn't shed much light on the situation, but this was part of the job: getting people to open up to him, to divulge secrets they'd never tell anyone else. Dean wasn't sure what answer would be best received, so he decided to just stick with the truth. "I help people. That's what I do. People have died this week, and I think you might be able to tell me why three buildings have been destroyed." The young man paled. "Or if not that, then you can just tell me what you saw. Also, you look pretty shaken up. Can't just leave a guy like that."

 

Dean was having a hard time deciphering Credence's little looks. Right now, the young man seemed flabbergasted. He looked at Dean as if he had two heads.

 

"I…" the boy started. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I want to trust you. But I don't think you can handle the truth."

 

Dean snorted. "Really? 'A Few Good Men'?"

 

Credence's face showed no recognition.

 

"Oh, right. Movie came out in what, '92?" Realizing he was basically talking to himself, Dean hunkered down and waved the waiter over.

 

"Hey buddy, is there any sausage or bacon on this menu?"

 

"Eh, the loukaniko is sausage, if you like," he said with a light Mediterranean accent.

 

"Alright, so I'll have Kayanas, and the kid here will have…" when Credence failed to say anything, Dean barreled on, "he'll have a feta omelette." That sounded like something Sam would order.

 

The waiter nodded and promised to have their order out shortly.

 

Dean turned back to Credence, already forming a conversation strategy in his head. "Credence." The boy's head snapped up and he occasionally glanced up to make eye contact, but usually let his gaze linger a little lower than the eyeline. "Credence, I'm a hunter. I hunt down bad guys and monsters and I try to save people. I've seen all sorts of crazy stuff, so don't worry your little head about me. Whatever you say, I can handle it."

 

So far, Credence was just stiff, but at least no more closed off than he was before. He still seemed reluctant to speak.

 

Dean continued: "I've done a bit of time travelling myself, not that that's anything to brag about. They weren't always the best experiences. Anyway, there's probably something in our library back home and if we find the right spell, we could just- plop! -you right on down to your time, as long as that wouldn't interfere with New York's timeline. No guarantees, but it's a possibility. About the explosions though, you'll have to fill me in with what you know. Cause even if I send you back to your time, I'd want to make sure the explosions stop. So what do you think of that?"

 

The boy took a long, deep breath, and then, for the first time, held Dean's gaze for longer than a heartbeat. "I think…I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester. This is all a bit much."

 

What a bust. Dean sighed heavily, and the young man stiffened. Man, Credence was jumpy. Whatever happened had spooked the kid. Either that, or he was just a poor, high-strung son of a bitch. At twenty-four. Dean tried to remember what he was like at that age, but he certainly wasn't near as skittish as this kid. Surely, this kid had seen things, maybe things he couldn't explain to himself, let alone a stranger.

 

Dean just had to keep trying, had to find something that would make the kid open up to him. "I know this is a lot. I know what it's like to see monsters. I know that when they're gone, they're not really gone." The boy flinched, making Dean believe he was getting closer to the truth. "You see them when you close your eyes. You see them in your dreams. But you know what? I'm the guy who stops the monsters. My and my brother do it as our day-jobs. But you gotta talk to me."

 

The young man seemed beside himself, trying to find words. "Earlier, you said…spell?" Credence asked. Then he whispered, "Are you a witch?"

 

So he knew about witches. That, or he was one of those puritanical religious types who believed in that stuff. Even though this was a detour from the conversation Dean  _wanted_ to have, at least the kid looked interested in talking. "No, I'm not a witch. But some spells can be done with the right ingredients, no magic needed."

 

The boy's eyes were practically glittering, but Dean had no idea why. "You could do a spell to help me," he seemed to say only to himself. Looking up at Dean, he asked earnestly, "Would I…be able to learn spells?"

 

Dean frowned. They were going off on a real tangent here. He especially didn't want to go down the route of demonic witch magic. No sirree, that was a bad idea. Hesitantly, Dean gave him a short spiel on what they knew of magic, both from Rowena and from the twins. "As far as I know, some people are born with magic: natural witches. Some people sell their souls or make deals with demons to get magic. And then there are some people who learn magic. Now that's pretty rare, and I'm not sure if maybe they had a little innate magic to begin with."

 

The boy actually smiled. It was odd to see a smile on his face.

 

"One kayanas, one feta omelette," announced the waiter as he set the food before them. Dean gave him a quick thanks and tried to ignore how curious the kid was about magic. He was maybe too curious. He dug into his meal, savoring the sausage, which was just heavenly.

 

As he was shoveling the eggs into his mouth, he noticed that Credence was still sitting with his hands probably folded under the table. His shoulders at least weren't reared up like a threatened cat, so that was progress. Dean swallowed his mouthful and gestured with his knife at the kid's uneaten food. "Tuck in," Dean ordered him. Credence simply nodded and picked up a fork. He didn't even attempt to touch the food with it.

 

Dean paused, wondering if maybe his messy eating was just that off-putting. He somewhat self-consciously wiped the corners of his mouth and looked up at the kid. "Don't like eggs?" he asked.

 

"I did it."

 

"'Scuse me? Did what, the eggs?"

 

Credence took a breath. "I destroyed the church and…I think I killed my ma. Then I woke up in that building where you found me, and I destroyed that too. Everywhere I go, I just…I don't know what to do."

 

Dean laid his fork down and wiped his hands on the napkin. He hadn't expected this at all, and frankly it was too much for his brain to compute all at once. Without shifting his posture too much, he put a wary hand on the ivory grip of his gun and rested his thumb on the hammer, ready to pull it down at a moment's notice. "What makes you so sure it was you? How'd you do it?"

 

Credence hugged himself. "I…I don't know how." Dean was reminded of how young he was, his voice was so light and reedy. "It just happens. It crawls up and takes control, and then I don't know how, but I become a monster. I did it."

 

Demon? Werewolf? Something else? "Do you transform? Do you lose consciousness? Are you trying to hurt people?" Dean asked, running through the possibilities in his mind. 

 

"It takes over. I didn't used to, but I've started to notice. When I'm scared or angry, it just comes out. I can try to control it, but it hurts, Mr. Winchester, it hurts so much, and it's so much easier to let go," he whispered as if he were in the confessional.

 

That didn't sound like anything he had ever encountered before. Wondering how Credence's skin would respond to the normal battery of tests, he noticed the young man had a nervous mannerism. He was worrying his hands, pushing his thumb into the other hand's palm and then doing it again with the other thumb pressing into and kneading the other palm.

 

"And those people…I don't want to hurt them, but I do. I mean, I want them to hurt, but I don't want them dead. Mr. Shaw, Ma, that other man…" The repetitive motion of his hands reminded Dean of Sam's old habit, when his little brother used to have trouble differentiating between reality and nightmares. He could spot faint scarring on the hands, but they were moving too fast for him to get a good look. Dean pulled his hand away from his weapon.

 

"Kid," Dean interrupted the boy's thoughts, thus interrupting his distressed movements. He nodded at the hands, indicating to Credence that he'd noticed the nervous habit. "Lemme see 'em," he requested. The boy looked up at him dolefully and his shoulders rose as he presented his hands for inspection. The kid was so tense, it was as if Dean, with execution hood in hand, were escorting him to the gallows pole. Taking one hand into his own, Dean pulled the boy's fingers open. It wasn't hard, and the boy didn't resist him at all. On the palm, he could see a myriad of scars and in their pattern, he could see a map of the boy's life. These, along with his behavior, were leading him to suspect a less than ideal childhood.

 

"What kind of job did you have? Back then, when you lived at the church." Maybe, Dean thought as he grasped at other possibilities, maybe he was like those Dickensian kids who worked in awful factories for eighteen hours a day. Maybe he worked with animals or rough equipment or piano wire. 

 

Credence looked at him strangely. He probably didn't believe that Dean was interested in this line of questioning when he'd just confessed that he had killed three people and maybe more. "I…I helped my ma with our church's mission. Passing out flyers, keeping the church in order, organizing demonstrations and rallies."

 

Dean was starting to get a bad feeling. "And what was your church's mission?"

 

Guiltily, Credence looked up at him. "To alert the public of witchcraft and to end their devilry."

 

If anything, that cinched it for Dean. His morbid curiosity was driving him to ask one last question on this subject, and he convinced himself that this answer could put all the pieces together. Nodding at the scars, he asked, "So how'd you get those?"

 

Credence looked surprised at the question and looked away, determinedly avoiding eye contact. "When I've sinned, Ma takes the belt to me."

 

Dean was slightly wrong, but he hadn't wanted to be wrong in this way. He'd thought the kid was going to say a switch or wire. Belts just don't leave scars. Dean knew well what instruments of torture left what scars, and he'd been on both ends of a leather strap. Belts left bruises and welts, and those would go away with time. For a belt to actually _open_ the skin, it would require force, speed, and repetition. Lots of repetition. Dean closed his hand over Credence's, noting how a few fingers would not stay closed all the way.

 

This boy's story was starting to sound a little too familiar. Dean searched his memory, but didn't have to look long. It was just last year. Magda Peterson.

 

"Listen, Credence." The boy looked up through his dark eyelashes. "My brother and I met a kid like you. She had powers, too. Her family was crazy and punished her for it, even though she didn't know better. Her powers…I don't know how, but they manifested in a way that hurt people. She was trying to get help. I didn't know her as well as my brother did, but he has a good sense of these things. She never wanted to hurt those people."

 

Credence was silent for a good long while and slowly pulled his arms back to himself like a cat curling up. "I told you, Sir, I wanted to hurt my ma."

 

Dean looked at the man's bowed neck. "You wanted to hurt her?" he echoed Credence's words. He took a sip of his spiked coffee while the kid was thinking.

 

"I- I wanted her to stop," he said, his voice breaking the slightest bit.

 

Dean nodded. "Alright then. So you didn't mean to hurt her. You didn't mean to destroy the church. Somehow you've ended up here, and somehow we've either got to send you back or get you set up to live in this time. And we've got to figure out what to do with your powers. By the way, your 'ma' sounds like a bitch. And whatever you did, you never deserved that kind of awful treatment."

 

Suddenly, Dean noticed the diner had grown too quiet. Without changing his posture or behavior, he tried assessing the room. Taking the corner table had been a good idea. Although the diner had been full to bursting five minutes ago, he saw only one person- a man younger than Dean -who was sitting at the winebar. He was undoubtedly _trying_ to look busy with a newspaper; his grip on the paper wasn't changing, and the angle of the paper wasn't conducive to read. And who even reads a newspaper anymore? It was only too obvious.

 

Dean pulled out his notebook and start scrawling instructions on the pages. _"Credence, don't panic."_ He slid it over.

 

Credence read it with curiosity but then immediately looked alert and focused. Not panicked at all. Good.

 

Out loud, he said, "That omelette hitting the spot for you?" for their stalker's benefit.

 

On the page, he had continued scribbling: _"When I cough, walk out the front door."_ Dean pulled out his keycard for the inn on Nassau Street and put it on the table. _"Then run. This is a keycard for hotel. Sam & Jack are friends."_ The paper sleeve that held the keycard thankfully had all the information about the room and hotel.

 

"Sir, I imagine your loukaniko is probably better," Credence said maybe a bit too loudly. He was not the greatest actor. At least he had caught onto the ruse and was playing along.

 

It also gave Dean time to write down the last of his instructions: _"Tell Sam 'New York is a real Funkytown.'"_

 

Credence nodded.

 

Abandoning the slow method, Dean grew frustrated and whispered, "What are you going to tell Sam?"

 

"New York is a real Funkytown," Credence quietly echoed the words on the page without looking at the slip of paper in his hands.

 

Dean grinned and put a hand onto Credence's shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze. After a morning with the guy, he realized how much a kind gesture must mean to him. He stuffed one last sausage into his mouth and stood up. He ambled toward the back of the small restaurant past the counter and turned a corner. He heard more than saw the guy with the newspaper standing up, his soft footfalls following Dean's. He couldn't see Credence from where he was, but hopefully the kid was quick. And hopefully the stalker was more interested in Dean than his breakfast partner. As he opened the door to the bathroom, Dean coughed loudly into his fist.

 

Thankfully, he heard the scrape of a chair against the floor. Unfortunately, so did the guy tailing him. The stranger whirled around at the sound, but Dean was fast enough to throw a solid right hook into the guy's jaw.

 

"Run!" Dean shouted, throwing an undercut.

 

The guy he was fighting was on the shorter side, but he was quick. The man pulled something from a holster at his forearm, and Dean only had a second to pull his own weapon out before bright sparks of light were shooting at him.

 

"The hell?!" Dean shouted indignantly. He pulled the trigger on the gun, only to have the bullet hit an invisible shield and ricochet into the wall.

 

The man shouted some words in Latin, and Dean only caught a few of them. None were said as a long incantation like most witches, just random words accompanied by various colors of light. Dean had never gone up against something like this before.

 

Thankfully, the man was relying too heavily on his magic stick, and Dean was able to grab the man's forearm and sweep his leg. The wand was still tight in his grip, but it only required a good joint lock to have it flying across the diner. Dean held the man's arm tight against his back.

 

"Who are you!" Dean growled.

 

"Who are you?" indignantly hollered the voice. Oh damn, it was a Brit.

 

Dean pulled out his gun and placed the muzzle against the guy's shoulder. "I asked first."

 

"Oh, bloody hell. I'm Auror Harry Potter, on behalf of the British Ministry of Magic."

 

Dean didn't really have an answer for that. Suddenly, the man's wand flew back across the room and into Potter's awaiting left hand.

 

Before the man could make another incantation, Dean snapped the arm he had a grip on. The man, Potter, cried out, and suddenly Dean felt reality squeezing him on all sides. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't move. Then just as suddenly, it stopped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please PLEASE tell me what you think. Is it too maudlin? Were they in character? Does their conversation make sense?


	4. Which Witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at Sam and the Scamanders

_"And you believe witches exist. Which means you've met one."_

 

_"Several," Sam growled, "and very few of them friendly."_

 

_\---_

 

"That's just bad luck, mate," old man Newt said, still holding his hands up warily. "Come lad, why don't you put that thing down before someone's eye gets poked out?" he said.

 

Sam lowered his gun half-way. "How are you involved with these explosions?"

 

Tina walked forward, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her husband. She was having none of the crouching or submissiveness. "We're investigating them, same as you." She had a wand gripped loosely in one hand, only making Sam more cautious.

 

"Listen," said the old British man, "we encountered something like this many, many years ago and discovered the cause too late to do any good, too late to save him from being destroyed. But we've come all the way from England when we heard about the incidents."

 

Sam paused. "You've seen this before? Then what was it?"

 

"Now, that's a bit of an explanation. You must understand, there hasn't been one for almost a century, and before that- well, before that year, there hadn't been sightings in several centuries. There used to be more of them, but-"

 

"Short version, Newt."

 

"Right," Newt nodded to himself. "It's an Obscurus. An unstable, uncontrollable dark force that develops--"

 

Sam was ready to smack his head once he realized. "When someone with innate powers tries to suppress them to avoid persecution or abuse," Sam said, finishing the man's thought. Jack had accidentally stumbled upon it while Sam had been reading only this morning, and an Obscurus had been nowhere on his list of things this could be.  "What makes you think this is that?"

 

Newt straightened his back and looked at Sam with wonder. He broke out into a smile. "Now, how would a muggle have heard of an Obscurus? I don't think it was in my latest edition…"

 

Tina pocketed her wand and nodded at Sam to do the same with his gun. Reluctantly, he put on the safety and reholstered it. Tina started: "We have a bit of insider knowledge. The appearance of the victims is eerily similar to that of the victims we had seen in the past."

 

Sam furrowed his brow. "The coroner reports were all normal."

 

"Ah, yes," she said awkwardly, "the No-Maj coroners would submit that. I imagine the American aurors had already gotten round to wiping their memories and editing the reports."

 

"Wiping memories!" Sam exclaimed. "Is that what happened to my brother?"

 

Newt appraised him. "Your brother's memories were removed?" He nodded to himself. "That is quite likely. I think we might've seen him earlier at one of the other sites. We thought he was just curious or magic-sensitive. Maybe he had a run-in with some aurors, and they took it upon themselves to send the muggle on his way. At least we can surmise he hasn't run afoul of anything."

 

Sam had an idea now that muggle was synonymous with No-Maj, but he had no idea what an auror was, and he had _no_ reassurance that his brother hadn't 'run afoul' of something.

 

"They're policemen. But magic," said an new, airy voice from across the hallway. At the far end, Sam could see a white-haired old lady, about the same age as Tina. She had wrinkles that described a lifetime of smiles and laughter, and had an easy-going way about her even at her age.

 

"Oh, you flatter me!" the woman said in response to no one. Sam wondered if she was just particularly good at reading faces, like those mentalists.

 

"No, I'm actually reading your mind," she said with a wink.

 

Sam's thoughts ground to a halt. He looked to Tina and Newt who simply appeared amused.

 

"Now, why are you all loitering in my hallway when there's a perfectly good couch inside?" tutted the Mind-Reader. She turned to Sam: "Queenie Kowalski is the name. I'm sure you wouldn't want me to just go around calling you 'The Hunter'." She pulled out a pair of keys and unlocked a door. Apparently, the witches had teleported him to an apartment building, of all things.

 

Sam embarrassedly rubbed the back of his neck. "Oh uh, sorry about that. I'm used to some psychics, but not any who are as quick as you."

 

"Aw, thanks sweetie. That's awful nice of you to say."

 

Tina looked him up and down. "You're used to psychics? Real ones?"

 

"Oh, he's used to all sorts," said Queenie from within the apartment. "This here is the infamous Sam Winchester, hunter extraordinaire!" They followed her in, and Sam was surprised to see so many things _floating,_ flying to and fro, doing the bidding of this strangely kind Queenie Kowalski.

 

A chair swept him up from behind and carried him to a dining table, where a napkin, a plate of pancakes, and a newly uncapped beer were being assembled by invisible hands. He looked to his left and saw Queenie orchestrating it all, waving her wand like the conductor of an orchestra. It was like something out of a Disney movie.

 

Impressed, he took a sip of the beer. It was slightly sweet, but not unpleasant. Newt and Tina joined him at the table, their places magically set with small pies and then mugs with steeping tea bags.

 

Taking another sip of the sweet beer, Sam figured they needed to get down to business. "What are we looking for, when it comes to an Obscurus?"

 

Newt shook his head, taking a bite of the mini-pie. "Well, the Obscurus lashes out and then disappears. Most Obscurials- that's what we call the host -die before the age of ten, but the last one we met was in his twenties. He was destroyed, and we couldn't save him. More likely, we're looking for a child this time, but we cannot be complacent in our search."

 

"Oh, but what about Sam's brother?" Queenie asked, taking a seat beside Sam. She put a comforting hand on his shoulder and turned to entreat Newt, "His older brother is missing, and he's quite the firecracker. I'm afraid the aurors won't know what to do with him!"

 

Tina nodded to herself and sighed. "Well, I suspected we would eventually have to contact the MACUSA."

 

Queenie turned to Sam. "That's the Magical Congress of the US of A."

 

"I'd really hoped we could avoid them, but it doesn't seem possible," Tina continued. "That's that. Once we have a bit of food, will we all be ready?"

 

Things were moving quickly. Sam took a moment to get his bearings and realized he couldn't just go off gallivanting without telling Jack what was happening. "Hold on, I have to check in on a friend."

 

"Oh, does he want to come along?" asked Newt.

 

Sam considered it all of a minute before throwing the idea away. This could be very dangerous, and Jack didn't have the best handle on his powers. He was probably safest at the inn.

 

"He'll be fine on his own, but I should let him know how the investigation is going." Sam took his fork in hand as maple syrup appeared from nowhere to lightly coat his pancakes. He pulled his phone out and dialed the burner phone he'd left with Jack.

 

 _"Sam?"_ answered Jack apprehensively.

 

"Yeah, it's me. Just letting you know I've got a few leads and I'm safe. Have you found anything?"

 

_"Actually I discovered on the internet a similar incident ninety years ago. No arrests were made, but strangely they took place at this time of year too."_

 

It's possible that was the event these witches were referring to. "Good. And while you're at it, you can do some book research. It's possible we might be dealing with an Obscurus. Don't leave the hotel, though. The book should be in my duffle."

 

_"An Obscurus? Really? If I remember, the book said the last one in America was in the 1600s."_

 

Sam took a bite of his pancakes. "Apparently not. An incident in the 1920s was also an Obscurus, and it was killed. Let me know if you find anything."

 

Jack gave him an affirmative before hanging up. Sam looked up  at the three old witches. Swallowing his last morsel, he asked, "How old are you all anyway? Why have you aged?" Sam remembered the witch couple who had been around for at least half a millennium.

 

Tina gave him a doubtful look. "Are you sure you've met real witches?"

 

"Oh, Teenie," her sister gently rebuked her, "he's had contact with other sources of magic. Forbidden ones. Sam, we're natural witches, you see.  And again, Newt is a wizard. It's a male-female thing. We have a whole society hidden away from you Non-magic folks."

 

Queenie looked Sam in the eyes and giggled as she discovered his biggest question about them. "As for our age, we do age like No-Majs. Just slower, you know?"

 

Sam was learning so many new things. He broke off eye contact with Queenie, all too aware now that she used eyes to see into people's thoughts. Was there anything in the Bunker about these kinds of witches? And wizards? Were there books somewhere deep in the library about these people? He wished Jack were back there now so he could ask. Hopefully, he'd find something about these kinds of witches and wizards in the book he'd left with Jack.

 

"Alright then," Newt said, clapping his hands. "Off to MACUSA? It's probably safest if just Queenie or I am seen going in, since it could be conceivable that we have business there." He put his suitcase on the floor rather gingerly.

 

Tina nodded and put a hand on Sam's bicep and led him toward the center of the room. "Oh, I suppose Queenie it is then. You attract far too much attention, Mr. Scamander," Tina grinned. 

 

"I assure you, it is not intentional." Newt unlatched his suitcase, and, to Sam's surprise, put one foot in and then the other. Tina stood behind him, looking down as he descended. Sam knew there was no hole in the floor, but _where_ was Newt going?

 

"Come along, then, Sam," she told him as she followed Newt down into the suitcase. Her voice faded as if she were walking still further away: "It'll be curious to see the Woolworth Building from the inside after so many years."

 

Sam looked to Queenie for guidance, only to have her wink at him.

 

"You'll like it, sweetie."

 

Sam walked up to the suitcase and peered down, surprised to see a wooden ladder. "How do I get out?"

 

"I promise not to lock it, scout's honor."

 

Despite his better judgment, he steeled himself and climbed down the rungs. To his utter amazement, he found himself in a small cottage with a door leading…to the outside?

 

"It's like the TARDIS," he muttered to himself. "Bigger on the inside…"

 

"Quite right," Newt said, popping in out of nowhere. "I suppose while you're here, you might as well meet my good friends."

 

Sam was bewildered. Good friends?

 


	5. What Place To Rest The Search

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean Winchester and Harry Potter have it out, and Dean goes on a pensieve journey with Potter as his guide to discover the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there might be some disturbing material in here.

_"Oh, bloody hell. I'm Auror Harry Potter, on behalf of the British Ministry of Magic."_

_Dean didn't really have an answer for that. Suddenly, the man's wand flew back across the room and into Potter's awaiting left hand._

_Before the man could make another incantation, Dean snapped the arm he had a grip on. The man, Potter, cried out, and suddenly Dean felt reality squeezing him on all sides. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't move. Then just as suddenly, it stopped._

\---

Dean shot up, gathering his bearings as quickly as humanly possible. Almost immediately, he was on two feet, his gun pointing at the man and finger on the trigger. "The British Whats-it? You, you from the Men of Letters?" He didn't have the time to look around at his surroundings to tell exactly where he was, but he could tell that he wasn't at the diner anymore. The last time he was so easily transported, he was traveling with an angel. 

The man who had abducted him was clutching at his broken arm. "Merlin's bollocks!" he exclaimed sharply with a hiss. And then taking a deep breath, said, " _Brachium emendo_!" as he pointed a stick- a wand, Dean reminded himself -at his arm. To Dean's disgust and amazement, the arm reset itself with a crunching sound.

He then turned the wand on Dean, who still had his own weapon trained on the British man's chest.

"This is not how I thought this was going to go," the Brit said to himself. "Merlin, what will I tell Ginny…"

"Hey!" Dean interrupted his thoughts.

"Oh, hold on, you!" the man said, sounding more irritated than threatened.

Dean was immediately offended. He wasn't sure where he was, but he had the time to assess that they were in some kind of office or study. There were two windows and only one door. He needed some answers, and this limey douche wasn't giving him anything to work with, instead fretting over what this person or that person would say. Well, Dean decided…nothing like a little pain in order to be taken seriously.

Not feeling the slightest bit guilty, Dean fired one round at the man's outer thigh. The sound was deafening, but it had the effect he was looking for.

"Holy Fuck!" The man was immediately on the floor, and before he could do anything with his wand, Dean kicked it away. Wary of the trick the man pulled last time, he picked the wand up and shoved it in a desk drawer, leaning all his weight against it. That wand wasn't going anywhere. Unless summoning things through solid wood was part of the witch's skillset.

"Now, tell me what the hell is happening."

"You just shot me!" exclaimed the man in a high-pitched voice, stating the obvious. "With a _gun_! Fuck, that hurts. Can't believe I've never been shot before!"

Dean rolled his eyes. "C'mon, man. I barely grazed you. Concentrate, or else the next bullet is going through the other leg. Now, tell me what's going on. I'm sick and tired of you British guys coming over here, screwing things up."

The man seemed to compose himself. He lifted his thigh with a hiss, and Dean could see that there was an exit wound. So not quite a grazing, but still, nothing vital was hit. " _Vulnera sanentur…vulnera sanentur…vulnera sanentur…_ " the Brit chanted quietly, waving a hand over the wound.

Dean watched as the blood slowly stopped and the pink tissue started coming together. His pants still had a hole, showing a shallow pinkish wound. Although the spell didn't completely knit the skin closed, it was certainly impressive. This was some serious witchcraft, which meant Dean was in some serious trouble.

"Merlin, that still stings," the Brit said to himself. Still sitting on the floor, the man looked up at Dean in consternation. "You're a bit daft, waving that thing around! You could kill someone."

"That's the point," Dean said drily. He lifted the gun again and pointed it this time to the Brit's head. "I'm not kidding around here. You're a witch, I'm a hunter. Are you the one who messed with my memories? How are you involved with the explosions?"

"I already told you," the man said, still not taking the gun as seriously as a normal human ought to, even though it was already made very clear that he could be pierced with normal bullets. "My name is Harry Potter. I'm an auror with the British Ministry of Magic. I was sent over to investigate the explosions."

"What the fuck is a ministry of magic?"

The Brit put a hand on his face and rubbed at his temples. "Am I really explaining the wizarding governing body to a muggle?"

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Dean tightened his grip on his gun. From outside, a nervous voice said, "Mr. Potter, is everything alright in there? Abernathy said he thought he heard a bang."

"Tell them you're fine," Dean ordered quietly, gesturing with his gun at the door. He was still unwilling to leave the drawer holding the man's wand unguarded.

The Brit, Potter was his name, stood on his good leg, hopped over to the door, and opened it just a crack. He stuck his head out, and as if he hadn't just been shot, pleasantly replied, "Everything's just fine, came back to headquarters a little early. Thanks for lending me the office space by the way. By chance, could you send me a copy of yesterday's paper? And a pot of tea would be greatly appreciated."

"Yessir, right away."

Potter shut the door with a click and lowered himself to the ground. "Didn't realize what I signed up for when Kingsley asked me to do him a favor. I need a raise."

"What do you mean, when you said you're investigating the explosions?" asked Dean. He lowered his gun but left it cocked.

"Yes, well as I said, I'm an auror. For you, that would be like a police officer or detective. My boss sent me over because the explosions were endangering years of secrecy, and because it was suspected that a dark wizard might be involved."

Dean clenched his jaw. "And if a wizard was involved? What then?" Because even Credence was responsible for the explosions, he was innocent. No matter what this guy, or any other British organizations, said, Credence was innocent. But dangerous, Dean reluctantly told himself. He hated this part of the job.

"Well, then he'd go on trial for endangering the statute of secrecy and for the lives lost, especially since they were muggle. Sorry, No-Maj as you Americans call them."

"This…statute of secrecy. Is that why you wiped my memory?"

"Fat lot of good that did," Potter muttered to himself. "Well, it is standard operating procedure. It sounded like you knew too much. Which you do, by the way. Know too much. How are you even involved, again? I'm a right terrible auror if I'm only asking you this now." Potter rubbed the back of his head.

"I was also looking into the explosions."

Potter furrowed his brows. "But the muggle authorities weren't involved. I should know, I double checked on the team that obliviated them."

"I'm a hunter," Dean said, not sure if that would clear things up. "I hunt monsters and witches. Like you. Except…not like you, because despite all the crazy you're spouting, I'm starting to believe you're just some government suit." Potter grinned as Dean continued: "So, you're telling me there's a whole magical government here? In New York?"

"Yeah. In America, in fact. I was just brought on because I was somewhat familiar with an expert in this field who was here during the explosions a century ago, and there's thought our expert is also here looking into the explosions, but we're afraid he'll get himself or others hurt because sometimes his head's in a cloud. It's all convoluted." Potter shook his head ruefully and then looked back at Dean. "And made all the more convoluted because of your presence. You were having lunch with my prime suspect. What can you tell me about him?"

"Why would I tell you anything?"

"It's really both for his safety and the safety of those around him. He's dangerous."

"He's scared."

Potter nodded. "You're of the opinion that the boy isn't doing this of his own volition."

"Hell no. So tell me, you witches got time travel?"

Potter frowned, probably confused by the non sequitur. "Not anymore. We used to."

"You used to be able to time travel to the future?"

"Well, no. Just to the past. And only really minor things could be changed. Time is a strange thing."

"Well, are you the kind of witches that are immortal?" Slowly, Dean was getting an idea of all the things that weren't applicable to Credence's situation.

"Oh, no. Just Nicholas Flamel. And maybe some rogue, unnatural Wiccans have found a way to near-immortality. Why all these questions? And why time travel?"

Dean considered how much to tell the guy, but if he was telling the truth - and it seemed like he was - then maybe they could help each other. "I think this guy was the same one who caused all that destruction years ago. I think he might've thrown himself into the future somehow."

Potter shook his head. "Very unlikely, though I suppose anything's possible. I didn't get a good look at this young man, but you are right about him looking like the same guy who made a mess the first time around."

Dean stopped to think on that for a second. "First time around?"

"Yes, a series of explosions and deaths in the fall of 1926. It was noted in the history books due to the extent of memory alteration needed."

"Ya'll got pictures of the guy? From the 1920s?"

Potter grinned. "We've got better."

At that, Potter stood up properly and limped over to the broad desk in the middle of the office. "Fetch that bowl-looking thing, would you?"

Bristling at the command no matter how politely it was given, Dean abandoned his station by the drawer and ambled toward a bookcase, where there was a wide dish squeezed in the small space between a pile of books and a stuffed owl toy. He visually inspected it first, looking for any markings or runes. Finding none, he put a hand on its lip and another hand under the base. It was heavier than he had anticipated.

"Great, now just drop it on the desk."

Not needing to be told twice to drop a clearly magical item, Dean let it crash onto the wooden desk. It was beyond satisfying to see Potter wince at the sound.

"Alright." Potter then held his hand out toward the same bookcase, and a small glass vial flew to his hand. In it was swirling liquid light. Dean didn't think he had ever seen anything like it. "This is a memory. It's like a video tape," Potter said, nodding at the vial. "And that's the telly," he continued, gesturing to the shallow bowl. Potter uncorked the vial and tipped the ethereal contents into it.

Slowly, Dean started seeing shadows and hearing hushed voices, but it was all in the bowl. Except it didn't look like a screen, as Potter had suggested. It felt like Dean was in the ceiling, looking down at a woman. He leaned over to get a better look, and suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder, pitching him headfirst into the scene.

There was a woman. She wore a hat over chin-length hair and a coat over a sensible outfit. "Tina Goldstein. She was an auror, like me," Potter introduced. The woman didn't react. Potter and Dean were just like spectators at a three dimensional play. Their surroundings were dim, the stage lit by flickering candles and moonlight. Dean belatedly realized they were in a small, dilapidated church. The scene was shifting around him, and suddenly he heard a loud, insistent crack. Accompanied by a restrained grunt. Another crack, another grunt.

The woman and the stage flew by, and suddenly they were on the second floor. Dean, Potter, and this woman all standing at the top of the stairs.

There was another woman there, a cold and menacing figure, standing before a crouched person. This blurry woman had shorter hair and wore a dark and shapeless dress that extended to her wrists and shoes. "Mary Lou Barebone," Potter whispered solemnly. Dean hated her, though he knew nothing about her, save that she had a belt in one hand and a hateful expression on her face.

Crouching just beyond the woman was a boy or man in a white shirt and black vest. Apprehensively, the figure turned to look at the Tina with wide black eyes. Dean immediately recognized him. He knew the young man, in his stooping form, in his pale cheeks, in the protective way he brought his bloodied fists to his chest.

With a cry of anger, Tina pitched forward as a belt - held loosely in Mary Lou Barebone's hand - whipped away like a flying snake, tumbling off the balcony. Surprise and fear were painted on all three of the hazy actors' faces, and the dour woman collapsed. Whether from an unspoken spell or simply fright, Dean couldn't know. He watched as Tina approached the boy cautiously. With each flinch, the woman would simply slow down her gentle reach.

Finally, she coaxed him to open his hands and, with a simple wave of her own hand, healed the welts and inflamed skin.

"Are you hurt elsewhere?" she asked him.

Hesitantly, he hugged himself and shook his head in the negative.

She paused a moment to gather herself. "I'm sorry you had to endure this," she said thickly.

"It's only right." The young man looked down at his now healed hands and then at the collapsed woman. Looking back to Tina with big, pleading eyes, he asked, "Will you take me to the devil now?"

"The devil?"

Dean had an idea where this was going.

The boy's voice was slight and resigned. "Ma would say, 'Ye are not able the cup of the Lord to drink, and the cup of demons.' I'll take the cup of demons, if you take me now. There's nothing left in this life for me."

"Dammit, Credence!" Dean growled, fearing the worst. This Tina was a demon? Was a demon deal the source of his immortality?

"So you do know him," Potter said, nodding at the boy. "This is the same kid you were talking to at the diner?"

Shocked by the boy's suggestion, the memory of Tina had wrapped her arms around his shoulders haphazardly.

"Yeah," Dean said, wondering why the demon was hugging him so fiercely, "that's him."

When no reply was forthcoming, Dean looked around and realized that Potter had disappeared. The scene was still playing out between Credence and Tina, but Dean was no longer listening. How was he supposed to get out? Nauseatingly, the floor beneath him seemed to move even though he himself was in the same place. The new stage for this memory was well-laid brick in the form of a tunnel and a platform on which Dean was now standing. However, the change in scenery was not enough to erase what he'd just seen.

"Did he take the deal?" he practically begged Potter for information. Had Credence sold his soul? Did that explain his immortality, how he was still around?

"Deal? There was no deal," Potter corrected Dean's misapprehension. "Tina was a witch. She was demoted for revealing herself to the muggles and everyone there was obliviated. You called it 'wiping memories.'"

"Even Credence?"

"Even Credence."

The tunnel flared to life, a train barreling down, and suddenly they were surrounded by a tornado of black, oily smoke. To Dean, it looks like the smoke of a thousand demons, swirling in concert. But then Tina appeared, and she started talking to to. Slowly, the smoke pulled back, and within its depths, Dean could see Credence's silhouette. He watched Tina as she talked him down, spoke to him in an earnest, pleading voice. The dust and smoke seemed to pulse and settle, listening to Tina's sweet voice.

Then a crowd barreled down the tunnel, and it all went to shit.

Dean could hardly watch the new scene. It was awful. He saw beautiful white light shoot from the wizards' wands and pierce into Credence's person. His face contorted in pain that Dean couldn't imagine, and yet the onslaught continued, with Tina and another man begging in vain for them to cease.

They did not.

He could hear Credence's screams as the darkness seemed to explode and dissipate into shreds of black. The black scraps floated in the air like sparrows, some riding the wind out the broken tunnel, and others settling onto the damaged train tracks. Dean could hardly pay attention to the everything else that was happening, and in the background he could hear the aurors who killed Credence discussing what would happen next, not for a moment thinking about the life they had ended. The strips of black settled into the gravel and brick, and even though this was a memory, Dean could see the black seeping into the stone, becoming a bright read. These scraps had all been Credence and his blood stained every other inch of the platform. It was sickening.

He turned to Potter to see if anything had been done about Credence' body, but he noticed once again, Potter had disappeared. Instead of the world shifting, Dean felt a firm hand on his shoulder physically pull him out of the bowl. Gasping, he realized that Potter still had his hand there. Dean shrugged it off roughly. Normally, he'd have some quick remark about being handsy, but his chest was still tight after seeing what was, no doubt, Credence's murder.

These magic people didn't have such time travel. They also weren't immortal. He wasn't a meatsuit for a demon. He couldn't have traveled to the future unless he had been brought back like a zombie.

Or a ghost.

His train of thought was interrupt by a scuffle outside Potter's closed office door. "Mr. Potter! Urgent- who, who are you? What are you doing here?"

"Really, Abernathy, your father would have plenty to say about your lax security, trust me! Now, if you'd pretty please get Mr. Potter, I'd really appreciate it," the second voice, a woman's, was insistent but musical.

"Someone asking for me?" Potter asked, opening his door wide.

A sweet old lady with white hair turned to look at them both. "Oh, if it isn't Dean Winchester! I've got a guy who's just dyin' to see you again." She smiled wide, a dimple in her cheek lending to her charm.

Abernathy from earlier squirmed around her and handed a sheaf of papers to Potter. "There's been another incident."

"Where?" Potter asked, flipping through the papers.

"A muggle hotel on Nassau St."

Dean sighed. Well at least he wouldn't have to track Credence down.


	6. Holding the Heavens from the Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack finds a stranger at the hotel door. Credence remembers what happened.

_"Look for anything that creates explosions. Creatures, maybe. Witches. Demons, angels…" Sam instructed him._

_"I won't let you down," Jack said determinedly._

_\---_

  _Written on the scrap of notebook pages were instructions from Dean: "_ Credence, don't panic. When I cough, walk out the front door. Then run. This is a keycard. Address and name of hotel. Sam & Jack are friends."

 ---

Although Jack didn't know the term for it, he was developing a bad case of cabin fever. His internet search was successful: he'd found similar explosions, in this very city, almost one hundred years ago. There were no details and only two accounts on the entirety of the internet, both of which were scans of old newspapers from the 1920s.

One was concerned with the death of one Senator Shaw, and the other about destruction to buildings in the same manner of these explosions.

He had all of this information and research and _no one_ to share it with. He'd tried calling Sam, but there was no answer. He'd also tried Dean (only once. As he was dialing the number, he prayed that Dean wouldn't pick up), but no answer as well. Jack had found something; he could be helpful! But no one was listening. He tried not to feel disappointed, but he supposed disappointment was a human feeling, and maybe he should embrace the times when he felt human.

He scrawled a note and left it on the bed. He had Sam's laptop in his backpack and a phone in his pocket. Resolved that he could do no more, he went to the lobby to escape the claustrophobia of the hotel room, and saw the variety of people beyond the hotel windows. It was sunny and beautiful out there, and maybe he could check out the locations himself...

"I won't go far," he reasoned with himself.

Just as he was crossing the threshold to the outside world, the mobile phone in his pocket started ringing. He fumbled with the obnoxious phone for a solid two seconds before collecting the composure to answer it. How did Sam know? How could he have known that Jack had left the room? Was he being watched?

"Sam?" asked Jack apprehensively.

 _"Yeah, it's me. Just letting you know I've got a few leads and I'm safe. Have you found anything?"_ So Sam had no idea that Jack had left the room.

Happy to show off how much he'd discovered, Jack eagerly divulged, "Actually there was a similar incident ninety years ago. The internet had a few newspaper articles. No arrests were made, but strangely they took place at this time of year too." He wondered if the timing was significant.

 _"Good,"_ Sam said, _"and while you're at it, you can do some book research. It's possible we might be dealing with an Obscurus. Don't leave the hotel, though. The book should be in my duffle."_

Jack was steadily starting to feel guilty about leaving against Sam's express wishes. At least he'd go back to the room to fetch the book. Maybe read it in the lobby since the room was so confining. "An Obscurus? Really? If I remember, the book said the last one in America was in the 1600s."

_"Apparently not. An incident in the 1920s was also an Obscurus, and it was killed."_

That was the incident in the papers from 1926. Jack was sure of it. It was too coincidental for it to be anything else!

"From my internet search--"

 _"Let me know if you find anything,"_ Sam interrupted.

Jack paused. "Sure, I'll do that," he mumbled. He dawdled and wasted time in the lobby for all of half an hour before deciding to follow his gut. What good could he do just reading here, where nothing was happening? He could check out the sites, prove there was something connecting the incidents. He put the phone back in his pocket and sighed. Well, maybe he'd at least get the book.

He trudged back to the elevator and was so distracted by planning the most convenient route between all the explosion locations that it wasn't until he'd arrived at the room that he realized there was someone standing in front of it. He only needed a second to realize it wasn't Dean or Sam.

It was a man, a bit younger than Jack looked. He had a face that reminded him of the young man he had befriended in Washington, but this man was paler and had sharper features. He wore a suit, but his sleeves didn't come close to reaching the wrists, and the pant legs were a touch too short as well. Even Jack knew when a suit didn't fit right, and he was technically only a couple months old.

The young man whirled around, his eyes in a panic. Jack had the opportunity then to note the cropped bangs and the woeful, dark eyes. He didn't say a word, only stared at Jack with an unsettling gaze.

Jack didn't have a weapon. All he had were his unreliable powers and his inexperience with using them.

"Excuse me, why are you standing in front of my room?" Jack asked, hoping this person was simply lost.

The man hunched even more into himself and scanned Jack up and down. "I was sent here by Mr. Winchester," he said. His voice was clear and light. Higher-pitched and more broken than Jack would have guessed for such a tall person. He looked lost and uncomfortable. "I'm looking for Jack or--"

"I'm Jack," he said quickly, giving him a guileless smile. 

The boy's shoulders relaxed the slightest bit. "I'm Credence. Mr. Winchester sent me here." He produced a key card proudly displaying the address. "He's in trouble."

Jack furrowed his brow. "What? What happened?"

"We were talking, and he was so kind, but someone had been following us. He--" The man, Credence, was no doubt about to continue the story when Jack realized they were still in the hallway.

"Wait. Come in, then you can tell me what happened." What could have possibly happened to Sam between the phone call and now?

Jack ushered him into the room and closed the door behind them. He looked expectantly at the man.

"Oh, I'm…I'm to tell you-- It was very important that I say the words, 'New York is a real Funkytown.'"

Jack didn't know all of Dean and Sam's codes. He had been with them long enough to know what _Poughkeepsie_ was, but he'd never heard of _Funkytown_. He pulled out his cell phone and started dialing Sam's number. "Tell me what happened while I try to contact Sam."

Credence looked at him and his phone strangely. "Are you a witch?" he asked, looking at the phone. "How does that allow you to contact this Sam?"

Jack wondered if this man had hit his head. Or if maybe he'd been recently born. "This is a phone. Sam has one too. They communicate with each other."

Credence's snorted in humor first, and then, realizing that Jack was not joking, looked at the mobile phone with eyes widened. "That's a phone?" And then to himself, "It's so small."

Jack lowered the phone from his ear. Sam's phone was going straight to voicemail. "So you're familiar with phones?"

Credence shrugged and turned his head to avoid eye contact. "I remember phones being much bigger and clunkier. And not…like that." As if he knew just what was confusing Jack, Credence added, "The last thing I remember is being home at my church in November, 1926."

_1926._

Jack looked at him for a beat. "So, this 'Mr. Winchester' found you?" he settled on asking. He'd never called Dean or Sam by their last name. Maybe that's part of why Dean disliked him so greatly. Jack was starting to wonder if maybe he was supposed to, but thought it would be strange for Sam to be called 'mister.'

Credence nodded. "We talked for quite a bit before things grew complicated."

"You said he's in trouble? I was just on the phone with him a half hour ago."

"You were? I'm glad to hear he's safe. When we were attacked this morning, I was sure he was in great trouble."

Jack was confused. Sam and Jack weren't even in New York this morning. They had been on a plane. "I'm sorry, I don't understand. Can you start from the beginning, when you first met Sam?"

Credence blinked. "No, I met Dean. As I said, he was very kind to me. Kinder than I deserve."

 _Kind?_ Jack hadn't known anyone to use that word to describe Dean. No, the Dean in his experience threatened him- _'If I'm right, and it comes to killing you, I'll be the one to do it._ '-, drank beer after beer, and knocked him out with solid iron. Yes, that was a shapeshifter, but he _looked_ like Dean and in the back of his mind, Jack wondered if the real Dean would do the same given the right motivation.

A strange fire was burning in his gut as he saw Credence smiling to himself over the perceived kindness from Dean Winchester.

"How are you related to all of this?" asked Jack sharply, trying to quell the embers that were rising in his chest. Why was he growing so angry? What did he care that Dean seemed to warm up to this stranger so easily when he couldn't even bear to look at Jack?

Credence looked to him and wrapped his arms around himself. "I'd rather not say. Are we going to rescue Dean?"

Jack finally shrugged off his backpack, not at all in a rush. He wandered over to the bed and sat on the edge. "Rescue him from what?"

"A witch attacked him. He told me to run, to find this hotel. To tell Sam about New York being a Funkytown."

For the first time, Jack wondered if this man was tricking him. Maybe he had done something to Dean and was now hunting Sam. He really should be more suspicious of people.

Oh!

Jack could admit that sometimes he was a little dense. _Of course_ , Sam and Dean had taught him ways to test if people were monsters. How could he forget so easily? "Just to make sure you're not a demon or something, would you submit to a few tests?" Sam had shown him the basics. Holy water, either thrown at the face or drunk from a glass. Salt…somehow? He wasn't sure how they tested with salt. Maybe he'd just throw it at him? Silver knife to the forearm or hand.

He looked up, realizing that this Credence still hadn't answered him. The boy was hugging himself and still standing awkwardly near the doorway.

"What…what kind of tests?" asked the young man.

Jack felt guilty. He wasn't sure why he was feeling guilty, because tests were part of stranger protocol according to Sam, and he was doing the right thing by doing them. "Well, first this," he said, pulling out a bottle of Holy Water shaped like a woman. He found a salt packet in Sam's duffle and added it to the plastic bottle. "Drink."

Credence looked relieved to see that it was just water. He downed it smoothly, and Jack didn't notice anything worrisome.

Last thing was silver. Jack didn't really have silver around, but there was a foldable knife that he thought was silver or silver-plated, also in the duffle. He flipped the blade open to an audible gasp from the young man.

Credence was looking at him with wide eyes. "Are you…" he started, before swallowing his words and closing in on himself. Silently, he offered his closed hands to Jack.

"Open your fists," Jack instructed, positioning the knife in his own hand so he could make a quick, sharp cut. But as soon as he caught sight of those palms, Jack wished he hadn't. He could have gone his whole life without seeing the crisscrossed pattern of scars on the boy's hands. He wasn't sure what kind of supernatural creature did that to the hands and forearms.

"What thing did that?" his curiosity spurred him to ask aloud before his better judgment could stop his mouth.

Suddenly, Jack was just as sick of the tests as he was sure Credence was.

"A belt," was all Credence said. Jack, for all the social cues he often missed, could tell this was a painful subject. Jack cleared his throat and made the decision to stow the knife for now. He tossed the folded knife back into the open duffle. If Credence crossed him, Jack had powers- unreliable though they were _-_ that seemed to activate when he was threatened. _Surely_ these tests were unnecessary.

"Okay, so you and me. We have to look for Dean. And now also Sam, because he's not answering his phone."

Credence took a few steps forward, gaining confidence. "How do we do that? Do you…" Credence's eyes were wide as he whispered, "Do you have a spell?"

Jack furrowed his brow. Was there a spell they could use? "I don't know. I have a few of Sam's books, but I've never used a tracking spell. If they exist."

Credence sighed. "Does Sam have a book of spells?"

"Sam only brought a few books, and I doubt there's a tracking spell in them. You're welcome to look through them, but I'll start searching the internet." Jack pulled out the laptop and plugged it in, awaiting a long afternoon of trawling through webpages and false leads.

Credence slowly made his way deeper into the hotel room. "You are searching _what_?" he asked.

Jack then spent the next thirty minutes showing Credence how to 'Google' things and how links led to other 'web' pages or sites.

"You're telling me magic has nothing to do with this?" he asked incredulously. Jack could only shrug. He didn’t know the technology behind it, but Sam had explained it to him once and never used words that implied something supernatural was involved.

"Maybe after all of this, Sam can explain to you how it works. For now, though, maybe take a look in some of those books?"

Credence reluctantly pulled a book out, but his gaze never really left the laptop screen.

Jack closed out of his other tabs to hopefully help the computer run faster, but suddenly Credence's hand was on his arm.

"Wait!" he said with some urgency.

Jack looked up at him. "What?"

Credence loomed over him, gazing intently at the screen. "What is all that?" he asked.

Jack looked at the screen. It was the research he'd been doing for Sam, and it showed the remains of a church on Pike Street. "It's what brought us here in the first place. Explosions. Then I found that explosions just like this had occurred almost a hundred years ago. Sam says it was an Obscurus."

"Is that what I am?" whispered Credence. He pulled the laptop toward himself and starting scrolling down, pictures and text about destruction creating a full picture of what might have happened all those decades ago.

Jack really looked at the boy. Hunched over the laptop, his eyes wide with fear and his jaw clenched tight. Unsure how he would react, but curious all the same, Jack retrieved the large tome about magic users. He knew exactly the page, and set it gently on the laptop's keyboard.

"What--" Credence started, surprised by the sudden weight added to his lap. He put his hand on the page and traced the letters of the chapter. _Obscuri and Obscurials._

"Are you same thing that attacked New York?" Jack asked him.

Credence's eyes scanned the page and he flipped to the next one. "Yes," he admitted, still engrossed in the text.

"Sam said it was killed. That it was destroyed." What really happened to Credence? Would Jack have to…stop him? Like Sam and Dean stopped other monsters?

Credence looked up at him. Darkness was seeping in from the corners of the room, roiling and thickening as it drew closer to him. "I was." His eyes were white.

\---

Credence Barebone is consumed by his obscurus. He is anger and pain and desperation, but here before him stands a woman. He knows there can be cruel women and there can be kind ones. The one talking to him now seems kind and familiar. She says she and Newt will protect him. She makes promises. She tells him that Mr. Graves is using him. He can feel the fear recede, but he doesn't know how to put the monster back. He is coming back to himself, and he remembers that he is human. He is not anger, he is not pain. But suddenly, white lights are bombarding him. He is taken by surprise, he is betrayed, and he is hopeless. He cannot endure. He is no more. 

-

 Credence Barebone awakens in the ruins of the church. He clutches the necklace to himself, wills with all his might for Mr. Graves to come and save him. He cries for a long while, alone in the church. Credence unfolds himself, but he doesn't see Ma or Modesty or Chastity. They are gone. He looks for Modesty at her old home, but no one is there. He wanders the streets of Manhattan, but is inexplicably drawn toward City Hall and the underground. He has always gone to the underground when the world becomes too much for him to handle. He stands on the platform. Something is supposed to happen, but it doesn't. No one is here. He lowers himself onto the tracks, much to strangers' surprise and panic. He is hit. He is no more.

-

Credence Barebone awakens in the ruins of the church. He cries and no one comes. He looks for Ma, Modesty, Chastity, Mr. Graves. He wanders until he finds himself on a subway platform. Something is supposed to happen, but it doesn't. He stands there, wondering why he hears echoes of Mr. Graves and that nice lady. He remembers the pain of white lights and lets it consume him. He is no more.

 -

Credence Barebone awakens in the ruins of the church. He ends up in the underground. He is no more.

-

Again, and again, and again. He is no more.

-

Credence Barebone awakens in the ruins of the church. He clutches the necklace to himself, wishes for Mr. Graves, but is distracted by cries in the distance.

He blinks and lets go of the symbol hanging from his neck. He stands, realizing that this is not the church at all. He finds a window and becomes witness to something truly horrifying. There are a man, a woman, and a girl who appears a little older than Modesty. She cries silently as the woman shoves her toward the leering man. He has a hungry and cruel face. He holds her possessively to himself and runs a hand down her cheek, much in the same way Mr. Graves once did with Credence.

"Sweet as always," he says in a voice that matches his appearance. The man tosses a small, clear pouch filled with white powder toward the thin woman. She scrabbles for it and spares only a second's glance at the girl.

"Momma, please…" she begs.

"I'll be back for you on Monday, Baby," says the careless woman, already opening the bag and pulling a syringe and other random utensils from her pocket.

Credence doesn't understand the specifics, but he knows a transaction when he sees one.

"Momma…" chokes the girl. The man yanks on her arm and she cries out, only to be met with a hovering backhand. The man looks stunned as his arm is frozen in midair, his muscles stiff as steel.

Once again, Credence becomes anger and pain and destruction.

When he comes back to himself, he finally notices that the city doesn't look right. This is the niggling, burning thought ever irritating the back of his ears. The city, it looks silver, sleek, smooth, boxy. He remembers angles and arches and intricate golden details. He remembers elaborate stonework and beautiful, vaulted ceilings. He remembers bowler hats and full skirts, vests and waistcoats, not…whatever these people are wearing. Some people are wearing single layers, much to Credence's chagrin. They're practically naked! There's the occasional suit, but those are so basic, sleek like the buildings. Even the automobiles have transformed into gaudy, shiny shells. He doesn't understand how New York City could change overnight, and he halfway doubts he's in New York even though the green-topped behemoth known as the Woolworth Building is still looming right in front of him. He's walked all the way here from City Hall, which looks just as it did yesterday. He wonders if magic is responsible for New York's transformation.

He shivers. He knows, he _knows_ that magic is evil, he says to himself like a prayer. He knows that the monster inside him is evil too.

Credence has the necklace tightly in one fist. He realizes slowly that he has it still. Did the necklace transport him to this strange version of New York? Is this what the city looks like to magical people? If he continued squeezing the pendant, would Mr. Graves finally come?

He doesn't go looking for trouble. It finds him. It finds him as he is wandering at night near a shopping center. The lights are all off, except for one location that still has its lights on.

' _Massage 1 hour_ ' it reads. He sees people stopping their strange automobiles on the gray slate and then surreptitiously slinking past the door. There's nothing hypnotic about it, and he's fairly certain magic is not involved. He watches as the night continues on, the small cars leave, and then a very large automobile shows itself. It is now very late.

Blood rushes to Credence's head as he sees several young women carted away into the van, looking downtrodden and beaten. He sees men yelling and women cowering. He feels anger swirling around him, and he knows this isn't right. The world has gone wrong. He feels the darkness trying to swallow him, and he lets it.

Credence regains himself and he sees several dead men and no dead women. Hopefully they found somewhere safe. He flees.

The third time he loses himself, it happens because a boy is screaming. Credence cannot abide the screams.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He has met a few kind faces, but most of them ignore him. Some toss coins at him, so he has learned that he should not sit on streets with foot traffic. Yet some places are dangerous, and he's seen people with knives walking around menacingly. Despite his fear, Credence goes back to the street he knows best. A few of the buildings are familiar, and where the church used to stand is a pile of rubble, but it's the closest thing to home that he has.

His feet take him there in the darkness and he sits in the ruins, wondering whatever happened to Mr. Graves. He doesn't quite sleep and squeezes the symbol ever so tightly, desperately wondering why Mr. Graves would not come to him as promised. Instead, he meets a Mr. Winchester.

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? I'm curious as to what kind of audience reads both Fantastic Beasts and Supernatural fanfiction, especially SPN fiction based on the more recent episodes.
> 
> (SPOILER/WARNING: Character death)


End file.
